


The Twelve Days of Christmas (In Retail)

by Kita42



Category: Dragon Age II, Star Trek, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Christmas, Gen, Retail AU, Some Explicit Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kita42/pseuds/Kita42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With twelve days to Christmas, people are gearing up for a fun, holiday season filled with joy and festivities and relaxing. </p>
<p>That is, most of them. Except those people working in retail. </p>
<p>(Written for all those working in retail during the holidays. Kudos to all of you)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twelve Drummers Drumming (Badly)

**Author's Note:**

> NB: This work is un-beta'd and written too quickly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shield Electronics was never a quiet store to work at, but this was taking it too far.

7.30AM

It was twelve days until Christmas. The decorations were well and truly up, although in many cases they had been since mid-September. Christmas trees and bright, gaudy lights adorned the houses in the surrounding neighbourhood. A general sense of well-being and merriment had spread throughout the community, bringing warmth and good cheer to all.

So why the hell was it that somehow, that warm-merriment spread of goodness had somehow, for the seventieth-odd year in a row, failed to find those working in retail.

So were the thoughts of Clint Barton, current floor worker in Shields, the local go-to Electronics store. For all your music, television and gaming needs, said a voice in Clint's head in a sing-song voice, promptly silenced by a litany of swearing about the catchy tune.

Despite trying to sneak, cajole and beg his way out of it, Clint had mostly been given the opening shift of 7.30AM for the Christmas holidays.

And something was definitely out of place.

As he walked past the televisions towards the counters he was opening for the morning, Clint noticed a new addition to their (frankly, small) range of instruments.

A drum kit.

Clint may be a humble cashier at this particular establishment, but Christmas did not seem likely the time to try selling drum kits at an electronics shop.

'Morning, Barton.'

Clint turned to see Natasha walking in for her shift.

'Early as always, Tash. How many sticky fingers do you think you'll catch today?'

'Oh, I'm putting money on six today. Care to take that bet?'

'Seven,' said Clint.

'Care to guess how many don't believe I'm the security guard?'

Clint laughed.

'I'm surprised you can even count them all.'

Natasha smirked, and Clint pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

'Any idea what the hell this is?'

Natasha stared at the drum kit for a few seconds before shrugging.

'Your next worst nightmare?'

Clint couldn't help but agree.

 

8.30AM

'What the hell is this?'

Tony shouldn't even be allowed to work here, Clint mused as Tony announced his arrival with the usual lack of a recognisable greeting. He was staring straight at the drum kit.

'Take a wild guess,' was Clint's answer, 'and then get to work. We've got half a million customers in here.'

It was lucky he'd even had time to talk to Tony; Thor had showed up early and taken over the counter for the customers that did arrive just after opening, so that Clint could scurry off and restock the shelves.

It wasn't going as well as it could. Clint would have to go back to the counter soon. But like a professional retail worker, he was doing his utmost to avoid having to face customers at this time in the morning.

Tony clapped him on the shoulder.

'I'll cover for you,' he said, 'go get a coffee into you before we need to prop you up with something.'

'Thanks.'

Clint walked off, knowing full well that by 'cover for you' Tony had meant 'will shirk my responsibilities as well as yours,' but the promise of coffee was too strong to ignore.

 

8.40AM

The staff kitchen at the back of the shop was absolutely tiny. Clint thanked his lucky stars that one of the few things that populated the space (aside from the table, two chairs, and a half-sized fridge) was a coffee machine.

He didn't bother sitting. It was easier to look like you were just about to head back into the shop if you were standing.

The door to the kitchen swung open and the manager strolled in. Clint jumped.

'Ah, good morning Mr Fury.'

Nick Fury took one look at Clint with his coffee and snorted.

'You can relax, Barton,' he said, and Clint resumed his posture slumped against the coffee machine counter, 'we all know you're useless before coffee.'

'I'll try not to take that personally. What's with the drum kit.'

'What drum k… ah.'

'Ah?'

Fury sighed and dragged his hand across his forehead and down the side of his face, bringing it to rest under his chin.

'It seems that upper management has decided now is the best time to "change up our products,"' he said, miming quotation marks with his fingers, 'you noticed?'

'By upper management, you mean Kevin, don't you?'

Fury laughed.

'You know Shield Electronics too well, Barton, every dumbass decision comes from that guy. But just you watch. We'll use today to prove exactly why that drum kit is the most stupid-ass decision our esteemed business leader has made this week,' Fury took his own drink out of the fridge and walked back out the door, adding 'If you need me I'll be in my office.'

Clint drained the last of his coffee and headed out into the shop.

 

9AM

'Why is there a drum kit in front of the TVs?'

'Why wouldn't there be, Steve?'

Clint was perched behind a mountain of unsorted DVDs. His favourite method of sorting them involved grabbing every misplaced DVD off the shelf and throwing them into a box to be sorted only when the boxes started to block the hallway to the work bathroom. It was only Steve, who insisted on making the rounds to greet everyone in the mornings, that had managed to find him in his sequestered hiding place.

‘Seems like an interesting choice to make,’ Steve contemplated.

‘Interesting?’ asked Clint, raising his eyebrows, ‘Great choice of words there.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Steve, ‘at least, nothing we can’t handle. It’s an extra price to memorise, another sales pitch to think about, and…’

‘WHOA, DRUM KIT!’

The voice of an overenthusiastic child cut through Steve’s exemplary performance as the perfect retail worker. Clint and Steve both eyed the child’s apparent trajectory (calculated from the sound of feet in overpriced sneakers pelting against the floor as the kid ran through the store). The pattering feet stopped, only to be replaced by the pelting of wooden sticks against drum skins.

‘You were saying?’ asked Clint as an excited “woo!” cut through the cacophonous drumming.

‘I see your point.’

‘You’re on phones and laptops today?’ asked Clint.

‘Until close now, yeah.’

‘Better get to it then, Steve,’ said Clint, ‘there’s a guy over there with a skateboard looking at the iPhones.’

‘Got it. Look for the one holding the skateboard.’

Clint snorted. ‘By that, you mean “look for the guy riding the skateboard around the phones.”’

Steve sighed.

‘Have fun with those DVDs,’ he said, walking away.

This drew Clint’s attention back to his four-box high stack of unsorted DVDs. Should he abandon the hopeless task of sorting out these DVDs in order to attempt the hopeless task of dissuading a tween from butchering the drums, he wondered?

With a sigh, he resigned his eardrums to the temporary torture and pulled out a copy of Ratatouille to shelve.

 

10AM

Seriously, _fuck_ working the counter during Christmas.

Clint stared mournfully at the distant pile of unsorted DVDs he had hoped to keep hiding behind as he waved the next customer towards his register.

‘Good morning, how are you?’

‘Just these.’

_I’m doing great, thanks for asking_ , muttered Clint in his head while he scanned the customer’s order.

‘That comes to $45.’

The customer tutted loudly. Clint raised an eyebrow at him.

‘No it doesn’t,’ said the customer, who Clint decided to nickname Tut-man, ‘It should be $40. Not $45.’

With carefully faked patience, Clint pulled the two DVDs back out of their bag.

‘This DVD is $20,’ said Clint, pointing at the bright-coloured sticker, ‘And this one’s $25. So it comes to $45.’

‘But this one,’ said Tut-man, pointing at the more expensive DVD, ‘says that it’s two for $40.’

Clint looked at the cover of the DVD and calmly pointed out the print beneath where Tut-man was pointing.

‘When buying two DVDs with this sticker,’ he read out clearly, ‘And since this one,’ he pointed at the cheaper DVD, ‘Doesn’t have the sticker, it’s still $45, I’m afraid.’

Tut-man lived up to his name by tutting some more, before reluctantly parting with his cash. Thankfully, Clint noticed, to the value of $45.

‘Have a good day,’ he tried to say without sounding sarcastic, but was drowned out by the sudden jarring impact of drumstick on drum. Every customer in the queue and every worker in the shop jumped suddenly.

Clint chose instead to smile, hand the customer his bag, wave the next customer forwards, and pray that one of the drumsticks would break into pieces before he had to deal with any more impromptu amateur musicians.

 

11.30AM

The drums started again, and this time Clint chose to find refuge at the other side of the shop.

Pietro, upon seeing the progressively more murderous expression on Clint’s face, had offered to take over on tills while Clint finished sorting his DVDs. However, upon the sound of the fourth person to consider himself the next King-of-the-Goddamn-Drum-Kit, he had chosen instead to escape under the pretence of discussing important retail business with Natasha.

‘Tash, my dearest friend, how’s it going?’

‘The drums getting to you too?’

‘Oh my god I’m going to take that drumstick and shove it up Kevin’s… nose.’

Natasha smiled as she pulled over a customer to check their bags. Aside from looking vaguely offended to be “accused of stealing,” as it were, they left without a fuss.

‘How long is this going to go on?’ asked Clint, sounding whinier than he’d intended to.

‘However long it takes for Fury to decide we’re more likely to break the drums into tiny pieces instead of just moving them out the back,’ she replied, ‘So I’d say at least until four.’

Clint made the most disgruntled noise he could manage. In the background, the drummer finally decided to head off to greener pastures, and both Clint and Natasha breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Get back to your DVDs,’ she said, ‘And try not to kill any drummers.’

Clint walked off, listening vaguely to the sounds of a male customer talking to Natasha, progressively digging himself into a deeper pit with each variation on “darling” and “sweetheart” that he used.

Fury couldn’t let this go on much longer.

 

12.30PM

The fifth drummer was, at least, quiet about it, and Clint could finish stacking his DVDs in relative peace.  

The sixth and seventh were clearly competing against each other to be the latest front-runner to Drummers McDrummerson united.

Clint knew it was getting bad when he couldn’t think of an appropriate band name to use when he’d spent the better part of the last half-hour restocking the CDs.

He jumped as someone tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Hi, can I help…’

‘Go to lunch, Clint,’ said Wanda, ‘You can’t hear the drums as easily if you eat outside instead of in the kitchen.’

‘You are a lifesaver,’ said Clint, shoving the CDs into Wanda’s arms in his haste to get away from the sound of drummer number eight’s continuous bashing of cymbals.

‘You’re welcome.’

Unfortunately for Clint, the drums were between himself and his access to that most vital liquid for his continued ability to not simply tell customers to fuck off when they asked him for where the DVDs were while standing surrounded by DVDs.

As he walked past the vibrating cymbals and the offending thirty-five-year-old-or-so man who clearly thought it was the music of the gods, Clint offered his most impressive death glare. Unfortunately (though fortunately for his continued employment), drummer eight failed to notice.

Clint schooled his thoughts into a few simple words.

‘Coffee. Food. Quiet.’

 

1PM

‘Back inside, fellow coffee addict,’ said Tony, having found the same perfect lunch spot as far away from the drums as he could get while still being technically on the shop grounds, ‘those customers won’t serve themselves. Unfortunately.’

Half an hour wasn’t long enough for a lunch break.

Clint crept into the shop, noticing that no one was currently mutilating the sound waves in the store. He counted himself lucky and walked towards the haven that was likely to be a pile of recently misplaced DVDs.

He had just passed the drum kit when someone chose to hit the biggest one with the apparent strength of an elephant (Clint knew nothing about drums, though he was sure that Steve knew the names of every individual piece of torture on the ridiculous instrument by now). He was absolutely sure his skull vibrated. When he turned to shout at the customer, he noticed a barely-five year old girl grinning ear to ear at the noise she had managed to produce.

Clint glanced around for whoever was looking after her and identified several likely candidates, none of whom seemed to notice that their charge was currently murdering the eardrums of all those present in the shop.

_DVDs,_ he thought _. Five more hours. You can do this._

3.00PM

Clint could not do this.

He had been through every single section in the shop. He had attempted to assist Natasha with checking bags, only to have her shoo him away because he kept looking whimsically out of the shop doors and into apparent freedom. He tried selling iPhones to customers, which failed miserably as soon as he produced his own four-year-old, dying flip phone (that he had somehow managed to crack the screen of), which somehow did not encourage customers to part with hundreds of dollars for a new phone.

He had even tried working the TV section with Tony, until Tony had positively pissed himself laughing as Clint had described the graphics of one TV as “I don’t know, that one looks kind of better than the other.”

Drummers Nine and Ten had been a force to be reckoned with. Clint was sure he’d missed a few; it was only the truly loud ones that stood out, after all; but these two were hard to miss. Fighting over the drum kit, Nine and Ten had produced an interesting melody interspersed with shouts and the sounds of shoe-covered feet kicking parts of the drum that weren’t designed to produce sound but absolutely did.

He was back on the counter, serving a customer with a very fake smile plastered across his face (why was the guy shirtless? Why did customers come into electronics shops without shirts on? Why?).

He glared at anyone who so much as passed by the drums. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.

 

3.55PM

Clint’s eyes just about bulged out of their sockets when drummer eleven took the stand.

It started out promising. He was almost convinced that this one, this eighteen or so year old woman would convince him that these drums were worth it.

And then it all went to hell.

Ten minutes of intense drumming later, Fury emerged from the back of the shop, just in time to save Clint’s career, about to be ruined by his murder of drummer number eleven.

Fury didn’t need to hover by the drum kit for long before the customer got the message. She sheepishly stood up and walked straight out of the store without having bought a thing.

‘This,’ said Fury, loudly enough so that those at the counter could hear, ‘Is going out the back until further notice.’

Clint sighed in absolute relief. A genuine smile returned to his face for the few peaceful moments as Fury started removing the drum kit piece by piece; starting with the drumsticks.

The pleasant smile morphed back into his fake one as soon as his next customer decided to pay for Fallout 4 with coins.

 

6PM

Clint had managed the rest of the day. He owed Steve again after being brought coffee no less than three times throughout the day.

Most of the workers in Shield Electronics breathed a collective sigh of relief as the sign on the door was flipped to closed.

‘So, no more drum kits?’ asked Pietro of Fury.

‘We’ll still be selling the damn things,’ he said, ‘but there won’t be one on display. Not in my shop.’

‘How’s Kevin taking that?’ asked Steve.

Fury shrugged.

‘Don’t know,’ he said, ‘not sure I care.’

‘I have a solution, if you would like to hear it’

Everyone turned to Thor, who had been conspicuously absent from their little group gathering. He was holding a copy of Warriors of Rock in one hand and an electronic drum kit in the other.

‘There is no need to avoid having drum kits on display,’ said Thor, ‘Though I would guess that this Kevin didn’t mention what type of drum kit he wanted displayed.’

Fury offered a grin to Thor and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You’re a genius,’ said Fury, ‘Everyone, help Thor set that up. Then get out of here. We’ve got more work to do tomorrow.’

‘How many today?’ Clint asked Natasha as they went to fetch a playstation for the newest addition to the shop floor.

‘Nine,’ said Natasha, begrudgingly, ‘more than I expected to try stealing today, honestly.’

‘They were probably just trying to get away from the drums,’ offered Clint.

Natasha laughed.

 

6.15PM

Thor was a damned expert at Guitar Hero Drums. As it turned out, Clint didn’t mind drummer number twelve’s drumming so much. 


	2. Eleven Pipers Piping (Christmas Cupcakes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Kirkwall Cafe, a customer has placed an unusual cupcake order.

9.20AM

‘Kirkwall Café, Varric Tethras speaking, how may I help you?’

Hawke envied Varric’s casual ability to talk to customers on the phone. Somehow, whenever Hawke answered the phone, they were far less likely to end up with a new customer and far more likely to end up with a formal complaint on their website.

Hawke continued cleaning mugs in the kitchen while Varric chatted just out of sight in the office.

‘Yes, well, you see, sir, they’re a Christmas special…’

‘No, it’s not that, it’s just…’

‘…Right. We’ll have those ready for you.’

Varric hung up the phone and called Hawke into the office. She gladly dropped the latest dirty mug back into the sink and headed in.

‘What was all that about?’

‘An absolutely charming gentleman has decided to order some of our Christmas cupcakes.’

‘Judging by the tone of the phone call, there’s no way that was all.’ 

‘Well, you know how we have six cupcake designs?’ Hawke nodded, and Varric continued. ‘This guy wants eleven designs. On forty-four cupcakes.’

‘Wait, eleven?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why eleven?’

Varric raised his eyebrows and gave a shrug. ‘His family only comes in elevens?’

‘Merrill will be happy, at least,’ said Hawke, ‘She loves creating new designs for those things.’

‘I’m not so sure this time, chuckles.’

 

9.25AM

‘Eleven?’

Merrill was staring Hawke in confusion.

‘Yes, for some reason our usual six aren’t good enough for this fellow.’

‘Well, of course, I can come up with something, but isn’t it a little unusual? You know, to ask for eleven?’

‘Merrill, if I had even the slightest chance of understanding customers…’

‘…They wouldn’t run away from you so often,’ said Merrill, finishing Hawke’s sentence in her adorably blunt manner. ‘Yes, ok. Well, did he say what designs he wanted?’

‘Er…’

 

9.45AM

Isabela was sitting on the counter in flagrant disregard for health and safety standards. Absolutely no one was bothered to call her out on it; at least half of them had, at some point or another, ignored health and safety for any number of reasons. The main reason, of course, being to sit down in the kitchen after having spent several hours waiting on customers on foot.

‘So,’ said Isabela, staring at the paper-covered counter, ‘what’s all this?’

‘We already have the reindeer, Santa, a Christmas tree, a wreath, some holly, and a present, and we don’t seem to be doing too well at thinking of any more of these,’ said Merrill in what almost approached frustration.

Isabela laughed.

‘Have you considered… a snowman?’ she asked, teasing.

Merrill stared at her in astonishment.

‘I cannot believe I didn’t think of that.’

‘You’re welcome, sweet thing,’ said Isabela, slipping off the counter.

‘Isabela, that breakfast tray’s been ready for at least five minutes,’ said Aveline, staring at the two of them across one of the kitchen counters.

‘Yes, chef,’ said Isabela, mocking a salute, plucking the tray from the counter and heading out into the café.

‘Aveline,’ Isabela heard Merrill ask as she bumped the kitchen door open with her hip, ‘What Christmas symbols do you think we should put onto these cupcakes?’

 

10.30AM

Hawke startled as a glass bottle of something was slammed down on the counter in front of her. She looked up to see Anders staring in absolute disbelief. Briefly, she glanced down and saw that the bottle Anders had almost broken was a bottle of caramel syrup.

‘Hawke,’ he asked, ‘where the hell is this bottle’s uterus?’

Hawke raised an eyebrow, lips turning up into a smirk. Poor Anders hadn’t been working at the counter in their delightful little café for that long, and he had yet to understand the ways of the customer.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

‘Because I just had a customer criticize… no, shout at me… for offering him our choice of syrups in his coffee!’

Hawke’s smirk grew wider.

‘And when I asked him what made it girly, he said, and I QUOTE; "Well, you know… girls drink it."‘

Anders threw up his hands and began pacing backwards and forwards in front of the counter.

Hawke finally let out a tiny snort.

‘Anything else?’

‘It doesn’t make any sense!’

‘Oi, Varric!’

Hawke’s voice carried through to the office past the clunking noises Aveline was making in the kitchen.

‘Yeah Hawke?’

‘Anders wanted to know why customers aren’t making any sense?’

Varric’s hearty laugh lasted almost a full thirty seconds. Anders looked increasingly more bewildered until Varric finally decided on using words rather than chortles.

‘You’ve still got a lot to learn, Blondie,’ Varric called.

‘This is precisely,’ said Hawke, looking at Anders, ‘This is why all of us developed the extremely healthy habit of drowning our sorrows at the Hanged Man after work.’

Anders shook his head slowly, disbelievingly.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘Are our regulars any better?’

‘Oh Maker no. Most of them are even more ridiculous than the new ones,’ said Hawke, ‘And then there’s the last lot.’

‘The last lot?’

‘Oh, those ones we have codes for. You’ll learn.’

‘Codes!?’

Hawke’s subsequent laughter and Anders’ bewildered expression was interrupted by Merrill coming back into the kitchen, her apron covered in a combination of chocolate powder and icing.

‘Anders, do you know what Christmas decorations we might put on another three cupcakes?’

‘What?’

‘Well, aside from the six we usually sell, Isabela suggested a snowman and Aveline thinks a gingerbread man would be a good idea, though I’m not sure how to pipe a snowman onto a cupcake, and…’

‘A bauble?’ offered Anders as Hawke smirked.

‘A bauble!’ Merrill clapped her hands together, ‘I’ll definitely try one of those!’

‘Don’t forget, Daisy,’ called Varric from the office that he was absolutely not eavesdropping from, ‘They’re picking these things up at three.’

‘Oh, I know, Varric, it’ll be alright.’

 

11.45PM

‘I’ll have my usual, thanks.’

Carver stared at the customer standing at the counter. Despite staring at his features; the single earring, the ratty clothing, the narrow-set eyes and the hair that was desperately attempting to morph itself into a mohawk, Carver was pretty damn sure he’d never seen this customer in his life.

He was beginning to regret taking over from Anders after his behind-the-scenes explosion over a bottle of caramel syrup. Not that he’d had a choice; Hawke had steered him to the counter, ruffled his hair, and thanked him before he’d quite managed to agree to anything.

‘Sir, I’ve never seen you before.’

‘Well, that’s hardly my fault, now, is it!?’

Pseudo-mohawk-man stared at Carver, clearly frustrated at the situation. Carver stared slack-jawed, his eyebrows frowning into a look of utter confusion.

‘I’ll have a medium macchiato!’ said pseudo-mohawk, ‘Really, for the number of times I come in here I expect better service.’

He dropped some coins onto the counter, refusing to look at Carver. Carver was completely fine with this as he picked up the coins, counting them.

‘Seeing as this is your regular drink I’m sure you already know this,’ said Carver, ‘But macchiatos are $2.60. Not $2.50.’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Mohawk, still not looking at Carver, ‘the prices go up every time I come in here!’

_It’s been the same damn price for the four years I’ve been here_ , thought Carver, schooling his face into something approaching pleasantness while the customer handed over the rest of the cost of his apparently “frequently” purchased coffee and stormed off to sit down at a table.

‘Carver!’

Merrill bustled out of the kitchen and bumped into Carver, transferring some of the icing sugar from her apron onto his (unfortunately) black work shirt.

‘I need you to think of something to put on a Christmas cupcake.’

‘A reindeer?’

‘No, silly, we’ve already got those on the cupcakes.’

‘Uh… maybe…’

‘Ooooh, bells!’ chirped Merrill, clapping her hands together, ‘That’s perfect, thank you Carver!’

Before Carver had even deciphered what had occurred in that conversation, Merrill had scurried back the way she came, leaving nothing but a trail of icing sugar in her wake. Bewildered, he turned back to the counter and waved the next person forwards.

As the next customer approached, Carver managed to politely ask ‘How can I help you today?’

‘Carver, eh?’ said the man, ‘Is that your real name?’

‘No, I’m in charge of carving the Christmas turkey so my boss made me this tag.’

It was only when the customer started laughing his head off that Carver realised he’d said that out loud.

 

1.20PM

‘Merrill, they look absolutely fine.’

‘Well thank you for saying that, Bethany, but they really could use some work.’

Bethany sighed. Aveline’s precious kitchen space was slowly being overtaken by design-covered paper, various types of coloured icing, and a ridiculous array of piping bags and piping nozzles. While the original six designs were accompanied by the newly suggested four, Merrill was still frantically deciding what to include as the last cupcake design.

‘This is all for just one customer, isn’t it?’ asked Bethany.

‘I know,’ said Merrill, scribbling on and crossing out yet another half-designed circle, ‘but I really would like them to be absolutely as good as they can be.’

There wasn’t a way Bethany could convince Merrill that really, those cupcakes she’d made did look absolutely adorable. Until she’d completed the full set of eleven, she was going to be on edge.

‘You’ve got almost all the designs done already,’ said Bethany, ‘and look! You’ve piped them onto at least thirty cupcakes already. You’ll make them all by three, Merrill, I promise.’

Merrill smiled shyly.

‘Thank you, Bethany,’ she said, ‘Although I guess I should finish these orders before finishing off more of the cupcakes.’

Bethany looked up to see four separate cake orders that, luckily, were of already-finished cakes. Merrill would only need to cut, plate, and serve the cakes before she could return to her fevered piping.

‘I’ll just get onto that now, then.’

‘Try not to get piping icing on the plates, please?’

‘Oh, I won’t!’

Bethany knew that she almost definitely would, but with Merrill as panicked as she currently was, she would simply wipe the icing off the plates and pretend it had never gotten onto the plate in the first place.

 

2PM

After the third pointed tutting noise, Fenris decided to get Isabela’s attention. As she came back to the counter to pick up a pair of milkshakes for the strange-hatted couple in the corner, as well as a hazelnut latte for the tutting customer, Fenris tapped the back of her hand.

‘Fenris?’

‘Code devil’s markings,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘Dark curly hair, white singlet, stupid shoes.’

Isabela’s eyes scanned the café as she sought out the customer Fenris was pointing out.

‘Got her,’ said Isabela, ‘What do you reckon, the old scare tactic?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Fenris, and watched as Isabela sauntered away. He returned to the coffee machine, brewing what appeared (by Carver’s scribbled writing) to be a decaf soy latté. Listening carefully, Fenris wondered what trick Isabela would pull this time.

After briefly dropping off the milkshakes, she swung past the customer with the dark hair and supposedly stupid shoes.

Isabela looked at the customer’s feet and immediately decided to nickname her stupid-shoes.

‘Your decaf latté, right?’ she asked stupid-shoes, holding the coffee just out of reach of the customer.

‘He did use soy milk, right?’ asked stupid-shoes, and before allowing Isabela to speak she steamrolled on, ‘I knew it, just by the look of him I could tell he wouldn’t be able to get my order right.’

Isabela raised her eyebrows and gave the most politely derisive look she could manage, before turning her attention back to the takeaway coffee cup containing a most-definitely-soy-milk decaf latté.

‘Well, it says right here,’ Isabela pointed at the “soy” box which was circled several times over, ‘that he did use soy milk, so I think you’re safe for now.’

Stupid-shoes huffed, making to reach for her drink, but Isabela moved it further away from her grabbing hands in the most nonchalant way possible. She leant against stupid-shoes’ table, holding the takeaway cup close to her chest and shielded from the customer’s grasp.

‘He is rather intimidating, isn’t he?’

‘A right thug, that’s how I’d put it,’ said stupid-shoes, ‘it’s all those tattoos. No one should pollute their own skin like that.’

Isabela managed not to narrow her eyes in a fierce glare, but it was a close thing.

‘Oh, but you haven’t heard the story,’ said Isabela.

Fenris could barely hear what was being said, but he enjoyed every second of these stories. They were always wildly different; he was tattooed as a baby by an evil adopted step-mother. He was born with the markings as a curse from pagan gods who were furious that no one worshipped them any longer. He was an ex-initiate of an international gang whose initiation process included the application of those markings. That last one had been one of Fenris’ favourites, as Isabela had gone on to explain that markings that extensive were only given to those who could withstand the greatest pain without demonstrating a single emotion. This time, it seemed, he had received the tattoos after being kidnapped from school and being held for a week with no food, water or fresh air.

On cue, which was Isabela saying “It’s a rather complex story, isn’t it?”, Fenris turned and gave the customer his signature smirk, complete with narrowed eyes and exposed teeth. It was the fiercest “polite” expression he could muster, and it often send customers scurrying away, leaving half-drunk drinks on their tables.

This time, however, the customer didn’t leave.

‘I have a tattoo, too, you know,’ added Isabela.

‘You do, do you?’

‘Yeah, but you can’t see it with these shorts on,’ said Isabela, moving her hands to the end of her shorts on her right thigh, ‘here, let me just…’

‘No, it’s fine…’ said stupid-shoes, ‘I believe you. I’ll just take my coffee now.’

Isabela finally handed over the coffee to the delightful customer and watched as she walked pointedly out of the café. She cackled to herself. Usually the ones who weren’t terrified of tales of Fenris’ tattoo acquisition were scared off at the thought of Isabela hiking up her short shorts another inch or so.

She wandered back over to Fenris, plucking a couple of used mugs from tables on the way.

‘You were right,’ Isabela said to Fenris as she dumped the dirty mugs on the shop counter, ‘she really did have stupid shoes.’

‘Fenris?’

Fenris turned to see Merrill, covered in multi-coloured piping icing and holding a piping bag in one hand. Her eyes were wide, infinitely more frantic than he usually saw her.

‘Merrill.’

‘Please tell me you can think of something to put on a Christmas cupcake. Other than what we already have, that is. And it has to be something I can pipe onto four cupcakes in the next forty minutes or the customer will arrive and be extremely disappointed and it will be all my fault and…’

‘A candy cane?’

Merrill’s eyes widened even further, if that were possible. She smiled a genuine smile from ear to ear and clapped her hands together.

‘Thank you! That’s perfect! I’ll go and get those ones done now!’

Fenris rolled his eyes as Merrill dashed back into the kitchen.

‘Did she not think to google “Christmas symbols,” by any chance?’ he asked.

A look of understanding tinged with embarrassment dawned on Isabela’s face.

‘We absolutely should have done that first.’

‘Yes, you should have.’

 

3.55PM

‘Every bloody time,’ muttered Varric as he stood at the entrance to the café, arms folded and feet tapping impatiently against the ground.

‘Cheer up, I’m sure he’ll be here before close,’ said Hawke, who was pretending to clean tables while using the opportunity to sit and lounge at them.

‘See, if the bastard had just ordered six damn cupcakes, I wouldn’t care,’ said Varric, ‘but Daisy’s been rushing around like a madwoman trying to get those things done.’

‘I know.’

‘Wait, Hawke, that might be him.’

Varric straightened up, looking hopefully at the man in the immaculately fitting suit who was steadily approaching the café. Hawke leapt to her feet and continued cleaning the tables.

‘Varric Tethras?’ asked the man.

‘Are you here for the cupcakes, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on in then, we’ve had them ready for you. Since just before three, I think.’

 

4.05PM

The customer finally walked out of the store with a self-satisfied expression on his face. Shortly afterwards, Varric stormed into the shop, a glare capable of levelling buildings plastered on his face as he watched Mr Cupcake walk off.

‘What a jerk,’ he said, ‘He had the damn nerve to tell us that a wreath and holly were too similar, never mind that those two are both listed on the damn menu in the first place.’

‘Well, he’s gone now.’

‘True,’ said Varric, with a sigh as he schooled his features back into his usual working mode.

‘Time to get back to it?’

‘Three hours ‘til close, still, Hawke. Make sure you tell Daisy to take an especially long afternoon tea break. She’s earned it.’

‘Gladly.’


End file.
